It’s strange: having to say goodbye to a place where you’ve lived almost a decade of your life. We’re moving on–moving up, I suppose–in September, and the past few weeks have been a buzz of contractors, packing, data disposal hauls and all of the things one ideally takes care of before listing a property and relocating. I haven’t gotten that much editing on Part II of Darkness done, sadly, though that’s already had a pass and Part I has been in an editor’s clutches for almost two months now. Really, I have the time to do all this preparation, and so I am.
But again, it’s strange: going through all the trashes and treasures you’ve accumulated. I’ve found photos of my mom, relics of her life, too–including death certificates. A discovery that really reopened that wound I’d mostly healed. I’ve cried a little, mostly because I wish she was here to see my life and the dream that myself, my partner and many others have brought to life with their ambitions. I’ve been saddened for all the other things that I’ve let die: those do-it-yourself vocal lessons I’d bought with the intention of retraining my voice, a Rosetta Stone pack of french lessons that suffered much the same fate of sitting in a cabinet for years and years.
Part of living is, sadly, letting things go. We can’t do everything in life that we’ve dreamed. We can, however, do as much as we can before we ourselves must leave for the stars. So while my reminiscing may sound melancholy, it’s not. My voice still works and holds a note well. Likewise those Rosetta Stone lessons needn’t go to waste and I’m going to start playing the audio during Monday’s packing session. As for mom, Zeus (whose ashes I found) and those things I can’t bring back, I still have totems of them around, totems to which I can sing or speak French.
Life only ends when we stop living, and I still have so much of that to do.
All my love,